


Watch them build a friend just like you

by QueenBoo



Series: Beauty of A Secret [1]
Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Minor references to depression, alcohol consumption, bad language, dan being insufferable, jones having heart eyes for handsome strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24455797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoo/pseuds/QueenBoo
Summary: Dan wants to drink his sorrows away, as is his right as a failing writer, but there's a trendy haircut with legs that just won't leave him alone.
Relationships: Dan Ashcroft/Jones
Series: Beauty of A Secret [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1919785
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	Watch them build a friend just like you

**Author's Note:**

> I made a reference to Jones and Dan meeting in another piece and I decided I wanted to write how I imagined that hot mess of an introduction going down. 
> 
> Title taken from the song Professional Griefers by Deadmau5 ft. Gerard Way - which for some reason reminds me of Jones anytime I hear it.

Dan’s bleeding out at the edges. 

It’s the kind of poetic bullshit he wishes he was capable of writing down rather than just thinking, but alas, these days when pen hits paper he’s more likely to start scribbling out his own last rites than anything worth sending to an editor. He can’t even look at a computer anymore; the blinking cursor was ten times more intimidating than the empty pages of his notebook. It would judge him worse; flickering it's disgust. 

Point being, his very existence is turning to mush and he’s going to steep what he has left in alcohol in the hopes that it will make him feel a little bit less like a failure. 

The bar is loud, which he hates, and chock full of brainless trendies who all think they're going to be the next big thing. They natter among themselves about the deep and soulful lyrics they have written or a genius film they’re going to make - their theme of choice being heartbreaks they have yet to feel and lost loves that Dan is almost certain have never existed. It makes his skin crawl but he knows he is unlikely to find anywhere that serves whiskey as cheap as here does. 

So he tucks himself in the corner and pretends his fingernails aren't biting into the skin of his forearm. Like he isn't one step away from peeling his own skin off with the frustration of it all. 

The faster he can get black out drunk the less likely he is to notice the pieces of himself crawling from his body and making a swift exit - pursued by a bear. 

A fucking degree in English Literature and Creative Writing and where did it get him? Spouting half-arsed reviews about tone deaf kids that wouldn’t know a decent song if it kicked them up their saggy pantsed arses.

At least his parents were proud of him to a certain degree. Not that he could feel it anymore. Everything had gone a bit numb on that front. 

Everything had gone a bit numb on every front really. 

"Are you Dan Ashcroft?" 

_ To be honest I'm not so sure anymore.  _

He turns his head, squints one eye closed so he will hopefully only see one of whoever is disturbing him. Three double whiskeys usually wasn't enough to get him completely wrecked but he had to choose between lunch and more cigarettes earlier today - take a wild guess what he had landed on. 

Liquor on an empty stomach was the brilliant kind of bad idea that was Dan Ashcroft's trademark behaviour. 

What he finds hovering at his side is a skinny kid in a striped shirt and leather jacket, dark hair feathered with flecks of green layered in seemingly at random. His mouth is set in a grim line, his wide blue eyes radiating fury. He has his arms crossed over his chest and his feet planted in a wide stance that speaks of his readiness for a fight - though to be fair, considering Dan wouldn't know whether to swing for the right one or the left one, anybody could win in a brawl against him right about now. 

"Are you Dan Ashcroft?" The bean pole demands again. 

"I think so." He replies, raising one eyebrow in challenge. At least he thinks he does, he's reached a delicious point of intoxication where facial expressions no longer answer to his command. 

The stranger's face looks familiar in a loose sense of the word. The same way most people are familiar to Dan these days, he supposes, blank faces interspersed with trends he can't follow and bandwagons he has no intention of hopping on board with. A sea of lookalikes that means he can never tell who he's _met_ through work and who through work he has simply become known to. 

"You write the music reviews, yeah?" 

And yup. There it is. This walking haircut fancies himself a musician which means the likely haven't met; but outrage has forced them into one another's paths. 

Dan chooses that moment to slam the rest of his drink before responding, “Yup.” 

He is a regular enough patron to this particular pub that the pretty barmaid behind the counter doesn't wait to be asked before she is refilling the tumbler sat in front of Dan. As she does, she blushes prettily and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She's been waiting weeks for him to ask her out and he knows it. One day, he'll get around to that. Right now he had more drinking to do. She's barely finished pouring than he has lifted the glass to swallow down another healthy sip. 

“Not much of a talker, are you?” The kid snaps at him. It’s like barbed wire against his skin, and oddly, he kind of likes the sensation. “I’m tryin’ to give you a piece of my mind here.” 

“You got plenty enough to give?” Dan finds himself mumbling before his filter can do anything to stop it. Though, not a bad comeback, Dan, well done. 

When he turns his head enough to try and catch the other man's reaction; he’s gaping down at him. Fury replaced with something like pity - no longer barbed wire but sandpaper now. And he doesn’t like that at all. 

“You’re drunk.” 

Rather than respond, he lifts his glass in a mock cheers before swallowing the rest of it. At best he is swimming in tipsy but two more rounds like that and he'd be well on his way to smashed. The liquid burns enough on the way down for him to screw his features up - when he opens his eyes again the kid has made himself comfortable in the empty space beside him. Forearms resting on the bar, slim body slotting into the space like a missing piece. 

“What you doing?” He asks gruffly. 

The little fucker actually has the audacity to grin at him, as if this whole interaction is a joke that they’re both in on, Dan can only stare down at him in utter disbelief. Most people would have turned tail and ran from him by now, especially when the alcohol seeps into his brain and makes him (if you can believe it) even more rough around the edges than usual. He relies on the population's ability to run from him so he doesn't have to be the one to do the running. 

But this kid shrugs him off carelessly and asks, “Bad day?” 

Dan snorts at him. “Oh, piss off.” 

“Ooh,  _ very  _ bad day.” 

“We’re not doing this.” 

“You sure? I’m a good talker.” 

“Yeah, I gathered.” 

And to top it all off the barmaid seems less willing to float over and refill his drink now that he has some pretty young thing sidled up to him. 

Wait. 

He swings his gaze over to the kid again, takes in the angle of his jaw. Shadow of stubble on his youthful features. The hair is hideous but the colour _does_ offset his eyes a bit. And okay. So maybe it’s like taking a dive into a mystical spring the way those baby blues sparkle up at him with amusement. 

If he had a home left to go to he'd be inviting him back for a night cap right about now. 

“You know when you do that you look  _ well  _ pervy.” The other man doesn't sound that bothered by it though, maintains eye contact and splits his face with a half-smirk. 

“Maybe I’m trying to be.” Smooth like velvet, Ashcroft. 

The kid laughs at him. Or rather, he doesn’t. He laughs but it doesn’t feel like when other people laugh; like a kick to the chest. Like they’re finding something comical about the sick, sad, sham of a man that is Daniel Ashcroft and he’s mostly trying to ignore how sharp their amusement feels. When this kid laughs, it’s like sinking into a warm bath. Refreshing. Inviting. All encompassing. 

It's laughing _with_ him. 

“What’s your name?” He finds himself asking (slurring). 

“Jones.” The kid sticks his hand out, obviously assuming Dan is capable of the coordination to shake it. “And I’m not gonna fuck you, so you can stop leering.” 

God he’s mouthy. 

He’s perfect. 

He’s at great risk of verbalising these thoughts if he doesn’t do something soon, so he finds himself asking - “What kind of name is Jones? Sounds made up.” 

“Aren’t all names made up?”

Dan hasn’t got the mental capacity to process that kind of twisted logic immediately, so he just gapes at him. “You’re… Really somethin’ aren’t you?” 

Jones beams up at him like he’s just come first in an egg and spoon race. Innocent, untouched, utterly pleased with himself. He’s like joy on legs. Came over here to no doubt knock Dan’s teeth out and here he is doing a great impression of a limpet on a boat, grasping for… what? What is it he actually wants, a friend? Dan’s not a good friend on account of him being a bit too messy in _every_ sense of the word. He’s already said he isn’t going to fuck him so what? 

“Wow, you  _ really  _ don’t talk a lot do you?” 

He’s been staring, again, and this time an apology doesn’t come. In all fairness, no words come. Just as well, words are what end up ruining things for him usually- sharp tongued and shame free as he is. None of this bothers Jones, who seems to decide he will just talk for the both of them. 

“You wrote that my music was shit.” He informs him, but he doesn’t look offended. Amused, sure. 

“Is it?” Dan asks. “Is it shit?” 

“Probably.” The kid shrugs, he cuts himself off in favour of signaling for the barmaid and where she blushes at Dan, she goes positively crimson under the attention of Jones.

A pool of conflicting emotions swirls in his veins. Jealousy, mostly. And let’s be clear that this one is particularly murky; he can’t actually tell which of them he’s jealous of. Jones for capturing the lady's attention or the lady for capturing Jones'. God he’s so drunk. 

Jones orders himself a drink - just a soft one mind and Christ if that isn’t putting his youth into stark clarity - and some water for Dan. The woman giggles at him and Jones send her a wink that is much too smooth for this man child to pull off. Except he does. Quite well. 

If he wasn’t already so confused by the picture of contradictions this boy is made of then that would have tipped him over the edge. Pretty like a girl but unmistakably masculine in his build. Tiny, a god few inches shorter than Dan and built like a rake; yet there’s a hidden strength to him. Untouchable but tempting. 

“Are you trying to sober me up?” He asks as the water is set in front of him. 

“Someone should.” 

“Should they?” There go his plans of stumbling back to his (not really his anymore) flat and doing something destructive so the arsehole that turfed him out gets taught a lesson.

Jones carts his gaze all over him in a way that makes his head spin. “Ain’t anyone ever told you that drinking your problems away is unhealthy?” 

“Perceptive little shit aren’t you.” That grin again, cat that got the cream. Dan thinks he could pull it right off his face with his lips if he wanted to but he abstains. "Tht why you don't drink, then? No problems? Or are you just too young." 

“Fuck off, I’m nineteen.” 

“You look about twelve.” 

The original question is sidestepped with an impressive level of ease. Maybe there is in face a brain hidden under that hairdo. 

“You ever gonna tell me why you’re in a foul mood or is that just who you are?” Still a nosey bugger though. 

“Being miserable is at least 80% of my personality.” Dan answers, dutifully sips at his water because he finds this tug low in his gut that tells him to do what the kid wants. “Comes with the job.” 

“Thought your job was to shit on up and coming musicians.” 

Dan blinks slowly at him. Any attempt to find a reason to avoid answering him is given up on. The sad truth of it is that he's enjoying sharing conversation with another human being. One that doesn't make him feel barely tolerated. “Musicians, artists, the human race in general. I can take my pick.” 

Jones considers him carefully, his brows knitting together in confusion. Then, he announces. “You know hating things doesn’t make you interesting.” 

And if there’s anything about this kid that makes him (dare he say) like him - and there are a lot of things that make him like him on a surface level, but he means actually like him, want to talk to him. Engage with him. Then it’s that statement. His utter inability to be anything but brutally honest. 

Especially when Dan is so used to people smiling at his face and saying things like that behind his back. 

Jones doesn’t even know him and he’s been more honest with him in this past hour than many of his actual friends (not that he has any of those either) have been. 

“Yeah but it makes life a bit more tolerable.” 

Even that makes the sunshine child laugh at him, the sound so similar to actual music it should be in the charts. Which brings him back to a thought. 

“What did I say?” He asks; Jones is twirling his tongue around the plastic straw in his drink, cocks his head to the side in query. “About your music, what did I say?”

“You don’t even remember what you wrote?” There’s a dip in his tone that's indicative of sadness and it’s the first time Dan has felt anything close to remorse in months. Though, he still tries to explain himself away, wordlessly indicating to the bar around him and then himself in a sweeping gesture of the hand. This seems to encapsulate his point well enough, Jones nods in agreement. “Said it wasn’t so much music as it was 'a wig playing recordings of a drum kit being chucked down the stairs'.”

Dan swallows thickly. “I’m sorry.” 

“You what?”

“I’m sorry I called you a wig.” And that was a fresh feeling. Dan was of the opinion a lot of the bullshit he puts into the world deserves to be apologised for, but he never has actually apologised. It feels strange. Especially as he realises he really means it. 

Then Jones is giggling at him. “I ain’t bothered what you said about me, you berk.” He says, snickering into his half empty glass. “It was the music I was raging about. I spent ages making that stuff, and just so you know, I don’t have stairs in my flat.” 

The meaning of that is completely lost on Dan until he elaborates. “But it was a right bugger tossing that drumkit from the window, I’m tellin’ ya.” 

He isn’t sure what catches him off guard more, that statement or how hard he finds himself chuckling in response. Dan has a lot of laughs, but only one real one, and this is it. A deep chuckle that reverberates through his chest and it’s honestly worth it to see Jones’ eyes light up like a neon sign in the dark. 

Dan polishes off the rest of his water. He’s still dipped in booze, there’s no doubt about it, but it’s taken the edge off a bit. “Next time I’ll be sure to ask what kind of instrument you’ve dropped from your window before I judge you.” 

“Next time?” 

“Well anyone who thinks dropping shit from a window is music might just be insane enough to be right.” Dan mumbles, unsure where this charitable nature is being pulled from. He’s drunk on Jones’ joy

“Oh, that means you like me.” 

Dan rolls his eyes, manages to prevent himself smirking and instead scowls down at the young man. “It means I’m not an arsehole.”

“Nope. I think you like me.” Jones seems to have made the decision for him (and he’s only a little bit right). 

“Look, you’re the one that tracked me down and decided I needed looking after.” 

Jones cheeks must surely hurt from the amount he smiles. “It was you that decided you needed looking after mate, drinking your sorrows away like that. Your little brown eyes lookin' at me like a lost puppy.” 

Dan wrinkles his nose, but it only serves to encourage Jones, who nudges his shoulders against him. He scoops an ice cube from his drained glass and crunches on it. “What happened then? Get dumped?” 

“Kicked out.” 

“Oof. What did you do?” Jones raises his eyebrows at him. “You’re not a cheat are you, I don’t fuck with cheaters.” 

Dan shakes his head, unsure whether to be offended or amused at the assumption. “No, my _landlord_ kicked me out.” 

“Oh.” Jones’ mouth makes a perfect O, his lips shiny and wet from his ice cube. Dan has to look the other way lest he go back to the ‘trying to get him into bed’ portion of the evening. “Can he do that? I mean surely they can’t just chuck you out?”

“Well, I haven’t paid him any rent for three months.” 

Jones snorts in amusement. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”  They share a chuckle. Then, “I’ve got a room going.” 

Dan is sure he gives himself whiplash how fast his head turns to stare at Jones. “Now I know you’re taking the piss.” 

“What?” 

“Jones-”

“That’s the first time you said my name, you know.” Jones pulls his lower lip between his teeth. He is going to give Dan a hear attack if he keeps going on like this. “‘S nice, what’s your accent?” 

“God, do you ever stop talking?” 

Jones genuinely appears to think about this answer before he delivers a response. “Sometimes, when the caffeine wears off.” 

“Is that gonna be anytime soon? I’m trying to tell you you’re insane.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it sounded like you just offered me a room in your flat.” 

Jones does that infernal thing with his shoulders again, jams them up around his ears carelessly. Shrugs away any accusation of his instability. “Saves me having to find a flatshare. I don’t really like many people, it’d be a right pain in the arse.” 

“So you’ve just decided you like me?” 

“Yup.” Jones beams at him. “Why? That not happen to you often.” 

And honestly, no. No it doesn’t. He doesn’t have to say that though, Jones smiles softly at him. “Oh, Daniel.” He’s never liked his full name, has pretty much been telling everyone to call him Dan since he learnt to talk. But the way Jones says it? He’s listen to hours of that on repeat and give it rave reviews. 

“Well the offers there.” It sounds like departing words, but it isn’t. Jones continues to hover just by his side, like he’s expecting Dan to think it over right now and give him an answer within the next ten minutes. 

He does. All the while Jones gets himself another drink, forces a second glass of ice water in front of Dan. The silence doesn’t seem to bother him either, which is nice. Dan can go whole days without saying a thing when the mood strikes him - which is frighteningly often these days. He isn’t afraid to stand up to him either, literally came over with the intention of starting a fight. 

And yeah, it might a bit of a problem that he maybe fancies the pants off him but Dan doesn’t do feelings all that well anyway. No doubt once he has conditioned himself to realise that Jones is in fact unobtainable on that front he’d be fine. It’s not like they’d be mates really, it’s just a flatshare. They probably won’t even have much of a relationship past this. This comfortable civility. 

“How soon can I move in?” 

“How long’s it gonna take you to sober up and go get your stuff?” 

“An hour?” Sobering up was going to be the part that took time - can see it in Jones' face that he knows this is the case. 

“Genius.” Jones digs a pen from his back pocket, hastily scribbles an address on the bar mat in front of him and then slips it in the pocket of Dan’s shirt. “See you in an hour.” 

He winks.  _ Winks.  _ And then he’s gone. 

Dan’s never sobered up faster. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always I can be found on Tumblr:
> 
> @queen-boo / @anciientboosh


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